


Confounding Expectations

by imaginary_golux



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin would really like to have Ori in his bed, but is reasonably sure they aren't compatible. Ori has some opinions about this. And then there is smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confounding Expectations

Dwalin does not have sex very often.

This is not because he dislikes sex. Rather the contrary – he is quite fond of it, in fact. No: the problem is that Dwalin, despite his tattoos and knuckledusters and generally aggressive personality, has always preferred to be the receptive partner. Certainly there are many dwarves who would be glad to bed the prince’s bodyguard, but most of them expect Dwalin to be the one on top – and the ones who _would_ like to fuck Dwalin, well, a fair number of them are the sort of assholes who would go and brag about it, like spreading his legs makes Dwalin somehow less of a warrior.

(He’d like to see some of those assholes tell _Dis_ that she’s less of a warrior because she spreads her legs for her husband. Their bodies would never be found.)

So Dwalin keeps to himself, mostly, except for occasional anonymous encounters in dimly-lit bars where no one knows who he is, and all he knows of them is that they want to fuck and aren’t completely repulsive. But that sort of encounter gets old pretty fast, and by the time he’s into his hundreds, Dwalin has mostly resigned himself to relying on the company of his trusty right hand.

He’s been celibate for the better part of seventy years by the time Thorin finally decides to go get the Lonely Mountain back from the damned dragon. It’s a suicidal quest, a fool’s errand, but Dwalin has always been loyal to his prince, and he follows Thorin into the wilderness with no more than a single sigh of frustration at the sheer idiocy of the whole thing. At least there will doubtless be things to kill – it has been too long since Dwalin had a good fight. Cracking the heads of drunkards in the Blue Mountains is hardly worth mentioning.

It is on Thorin’s foolish quest that Dwalin meets Ori. The lad is scrawny for a dwarf, and shy, and his oversized sweaters do nothing for his appearance; but he is braver than he first appears, and smart enough for three dwarves, and Dwalin is astonished, in the tunnels under the Misty Mountains, to see the lad lift his warhammer and wield it with unexpected strength and skill.

After that, Dwalin keeps half an eye on the lad, in curiosity. He learns that Ori sketches beautifully, that he has memorized all the tales of Durin’s folk, that he swears like a miner when his brothers aren’t around. Each new bit of knowledge is like a new little gem, and Dwalin hoards them greedily.

Dwalin realizes that he’s falling in lust while they’re at Beorn’s house, while Ori is happily sucking honey off of his own fingers. Dwalin does not stare, because he doesn’t want his arms broken, thank you very much, but his traitorous mind supplies the image of Ori’s long clever fingers covered with oil instead of honey, of that sweet smile directed at Dwalin instead of the long table covered in food, and Dwalin has to excuse himself from the table and bring himself off in the uncertain privacy of a dimly-lit privy before he embarrasses himself by drooling.

It isn’t as though he even knows if Ori would be _interested_ , he tells himself sternly. A young, talented scribe like Ori can easily aspire to a better lover than a middle-aged bodyguard; and in any case, Ori might like women, or like being the receptive partner himself. They might be completely incompatible. That’s even _probable_ , so Dwalin should just get his filthy thoughts out of his head and concentrate on this stupid, doomed quest instead.

When he gets back to the table, Ori is licking his fingers again, and Dwalin sighs and seats himself where he can’t see the lad, because otherwise he isn’t going to be able to finish dinner.

He spends the next few weeks trying very hard to simultaneously not pay any attention to Ori _and_ to protect the lad from the dangers all around them. The combination is singularly incompatible, and Dwalin _knows_ that he is giving Ori very mixed messages, but he’s not sure what else to do. He doesn’t want Ori hurt – the lad is precious to him – but he also doesn’t dare actually _approach_ him. As long as Ori hasn’t outright rejected him, Dwalin can dream.

And dream he does, while they’re locked up in the Elvenking’s dungeons and there’s nothing else to do: dream of Ori’s long clever fingers, and his sweet smile turned wicked with lust, and his clever tongue turned to other pursuits than talking. Ori must be fairly well-muscled under those hideous sweaters, Dwalin decides, or he could hardly wield a warhammer; slender, then, but well-made, he decides, with a light thatch of red hair over his chest, and, as long as Dwalin is fantasizing, a perfectly proportioned cock: long, and not too thin, just the sort Dwalin has always liked.

Dwalin finds a sort of sick amusement in staining the stone walls of the Elvenking’s dungeon with the evidence of his fantasies, but he starts going stir-crazy fairly soon anyhow. There’s only so many times in a day that he can dream of Ori kneeling between his legs, fingers dripping with oil, grinning at him with that little tilt to his smile that says he knows _exactly_ how clever he is being. Dwalin’s not young anymore: he can’t spend _all_ his time on his back with a hand around his cock.

And anyway the elves don’t supply any oil, so jerking off is less fun than it might be.

It’s during their escape that he starts to think that his feelings for Ori might go a little deeper than mere _lust_. He’s as worried about Ori’s safety as he is about Balin’s or Thorin’s, and the relief that goes through him when Ori wriggles out of his barrel and brushes wet hair out of his eyes is almost _staggering_ in its intensity.

Dwalin goes and rests his head against his brother’s for a while, letting Balin think that it is merely brotherly affection, and not a complete inability to cope with his own emotions. Oh well; Balin will understand, if Dwalin ever tells him. Not that Dwalin will, because being in love with Ori is even less intelligent than being in lust with him: after all, the lad might be interested in experimenting, but spending his _life_ with Dwalin? Now there’s a laugh.

In Laketown, Dwalin learns precisely how blind he’s been.

They each have separate rooms, in the great house which has been given over to them. Dwalin is quite glad of this, actually, because Bombur snores like a troll, and Oin mutters in his sleep, and Thorin has been pining at the hobbit so _very_ obviously that if they hadn’t gotten some privacy, well, Thorin might have done something really stupid, like trying to bed the hobbit while the whole company plugged their ears and tried not to look. So Dwalin is grateful to have his own bed – a bed! Luxury! – and a door to close so that he cannot hear the snores and mutters and insufficiently quiet conversation of his companions.

He is luxuriating in the bed – soft! And warm! And clean! – when there is a quiet knock on his door. He almost ignores it – who would be bothering him, anyway? – but it’s probably Balin come to make sure he’s healthy, or possibly Kili wanting to know if Thorin has noticed that Kili is in love with an elf (answer: no, because Thorin is busy being smitten with the hobbit, and hasn’t eyes for anything else), so Dwalin hauls himself out of the wonderful bed and goes to open the door.

It’s Ori. Dwalin blinks at him in surprise.

“Mister Dwalin, may I come in?” Ori asks, a little nervously. Dwalin stands aside silently, wondering what brings Ori here. Maybe he wants more material for the account of the company’s travels? Or perhaps lessons with some weapon or other. Dwalin’s traitorous brain suggests that he wouldn’t mind teaching Ori how to use his _weapon_ , nudge nudge wink wink, and Dwalin firmly tells himself to shut up and turns to look curiously at his guest.

“I’ve noticed you looking at me,” Ori says quietly, and Dwalin goes pink about the ears and clamps his jaw shut. Surely the next thing out of Ori’s mouth is going to be, ‘Stop it at once or I’ll tell Dori to break your arms.’ And that would be completely fair.

Ori looks a little more nervous when Dwalin stays silent, but he puts his shoulders back and meets Dwalin’s eyes squarely, and says, in perfect flowing Khuzdul, “Dwalin son of Fundin, as our first fathers asked, so too do I: will you honor me by accepting my courtship?”

Dwalin’s jaw drops. He has _never_ expected to hear those words, ancient and hallowed as they are. If he ever thought about courting, he always assumed _he_ would ask – and he has usually just assumed that he would not court at all. If nothing else, he’s probably going to die on this insane quest.

But Ori deserves an answer – Dwalin’s silence has _already_ caused him to begin to look unhappy – and Dwalin clears his throat gruffly and replies, in unpracticed formal Khuzdul, “As our fathers were answered, so too do I answer Ori son of Korin: I would be honored to accept your courtship.”

Ori goes pink with pleasure, and beams up at Dwalin. Dwalin cannot help smiling back. And then Ori goes up on his toes and presses his lips to Dwalin’s, and Dwalin wraps his arms around the smaller dwarf and kisses back enthusiastically.

They go down to dinner that evening with swollen lips and new courting braids behind their ears, and Dwalin does not even mind that Dori and Nori both threaten him with grisly death should he hurt their little brother. Ori wants to court _him_ – it is a marvel!

His excitement wanes a little once they’re on their way to the Lonely Mountain to beard the dragon in its den. Oh, he’s still perfectly willing to be courted – Ori kisses like a dream, and Dwalin could happily spend the rest of his life just kissing the lad, enjoying the weight of the smaller dwarf on his lap. But if they _do_ survive – and there is no sign that the dragon is alive, after all – well, if they survive, eventually the kissing will progress to other things. And while Ori is quite good at kissing – Dwalin has carefully not asked who he has practiced with, lest he need to go break someone’s kneecaps – well, most people who ask a big, burly warrior into their beds are expecting a certain amount of…topping. While Dwalin would certainly _try_ to do anything for Ori, he’s fairly sure that even for the lad who holds his heart, he’s not going to be able to become as aggressive as most people would expect.

But, on the bright side, they might all die of dragon before the problem comes up.

They do not all die of dragon, though it’s closer than Dwalin cares to think about. They do not all die of gold-sickness, though Dwalin watches Thorin and Bilbo break apart over the Arkenstone and hurts for his friend, his king, who has lost his beloved out of his own stubbornness and sickness. Somehow, Dwalin doesn’t think that dangling one’s beloved over a battlement and then banishing him can be easily forgiven.

They don’t even all die of orcs. That _does_ astonish Dwalin. It’s close, especially for Thorin and Fili and Kili – for weeks, the three Durins hover between life and death, and Dwalin, with his broken arm splinted, stands guard outside Thorin’s sickroom and waits on tenterhooks for word of his king’s fate. Ori, the sweetheart, brings Dwalin his meals and sits beside him, taking the weight off the broken ankle which is his memento of the battle, and rambles about the library – undragoned, since books apparently hold no value to dragons, more fool they – and the ongoing negotiations between elves and dwarves and men, with Bilbo as star negotiator.

And finally Thorin is well enough to leave his sickbed, and Fili and Kili are as healed as they will be – though Fili has lost an eye, and Kili may never have the arm strength to draw a bow again – and Dwalin can relax his vigil and go at last to the bedroom he has not even used yet, planning to sleep for a week.

Ori is waiting for him. The lad has a tray of food for them to share, and chatters amiably about the day’s excitement while Dwalin devours it. And then, when Dwalin is full and sleepy and not expecting any sort of surprise at all, Ori says, “Would you like a massage?”

Dwalin doesn’t quite have the willpower to refuse. Ori’s warm, oily hands all over him will be torture, but they will also be fodder for some _very good_ dreams, later, when Ori has decided Dwalin isn’t worth his time. So Dwalin agrees, and lets Ori help him out of his light armor and tunic, and sprawls facedown on the bed.

Ori makes a soft sound of appreciation, and traces one of Dwalin’s tattoos. “Goodness, they _are_ all over you,” he says quietly. Dwalin nods. Ori doesn’t seem to need a reply; he climbs onto the bed and straddles Dwalin’s hips for ease of balance, and Dwalin reminds his eager body that this is _not_ about sex, and in any case Ori wouldn’t want to fuck him. His body disagrees. Well, hopefully Ori will leave without asking Dwalin to flip over.

Ori’s hands are strong and warm and slick with oil, and Dwalin goes limp against the sheets as Ori starts with his shoulders and works his way down. Strong fingers coax the tension out of Dwalin’s neck, find the knots in his back, stroke long and slow up his spine, until Dwalin is a little moaning heap of very happy dwarf, and most of his brain has migrated south into his pants.

Which is why, when Ori shuffles backwards a little awkwardly, Dwalin spreads his legs wide in clear invitation, leaving Ori kneeling between them.

There is a pause, during which Dwalin’s brain recovers a little, and he realizes exactly how badly this is going to go. Well, he always knew it was going to go to shit; this is just going to be slightly more unpleasant than he’d anticipated. But Ori’s a sweet fellow; doubtless he’ll just refuse politely and then never come near Dwalin again.

Ori clears his throat gently, and says, voice a little high with nerves, “Dwalin? Did you – I mean – you don’t have to…” He trails off awkwardly.

Dwalin sighs and flips over clumsily, looking up to meet Ori’s nervous brown eyes. “Lad, I _like_ it,” he says. “I prefer it that way.”

Ori’s jaw drops. Dwalin waits for laughter, for disdain, for reluctance. And then Ori begins to smile. It’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, like the Arkenstone shining beneath a pile of gold.

“Really,” he says quietly. “How odd. I rather prefer, ah, being the hammer and not the anvil. Though I’d have been _your_ anvil, happily, for the privilege of having you in my bed.”

Dwalin blinks up at him in shock and delight. “I’d rather you be the hammer, lad, if it’s all the same to you,” he says at last, voice a little hoarse with relief. “Though I’d have tried to be your hammer, if it would have kept you here.”

Ori laughs a little, and stretches up, careful of Dwalin’s broken arm, to kiss him thoroughly. Dwalin relaxes under Ori’s warm weight, and kisses back. “It seems we are well suited to each other,” Ori says at last, pulling away just far enough to rest his forehead against Dwalin’s. “I wish we’d had the sense to figure that out _weeks_ ago – I could have been ogling that fine ass of yours this whole time!”

Dwalin shakes with laughter. “Well, ogle away,” he says merrily. “Though to be perfectly honest, lad, I’d like it if you did more than _ogle_ , if you don’t mind.”

Ori sits back on his heels and tugs impatiently at the fastenings of Dwalin’s trousers. “Let me just get these off of you, and I will do _far_ more than look,” he promises.

Dwalin grins. “I can’t be the only naked dwarf in this bed,” he objects, and has the great pleasure of seeing Ori strip out of his own clothes with clumsy haste. Ori is, in fact, well-built beneath the oversized sweater, with a sort of lean strength of which Dwalin quite approves. And his cock is long and just a little thicker than might be proportionate. Dwalin gives his lover a once-over, letting his appreciation show in his expression, and then lays back against the pillows and grins.

“Get over here, lad,” he says, and Ori obeys promptly, settling himself between Dwalin’s legs with a distinctly proprietary air.

The sight of Ori, long fingers dripping with oil and sweet mouth curved in that wicked smile, _actually_ kneeling between Dwalin’s legs, is almost enough to put a premature end to Dwalin’s evening. “Get on with it,” he urges. “Mahal – don’t tease!”

“No teasing,” Ori promises, “not tonight.” And his hand goes down between them, and Dwalin sighs in relief as one long finger finds his entrance and slides easily inside. “But someday,” Ori adds, crooking his finger and grinning wider when Dwalin grunts in pleasure, “I plan to tease you till you _beg_ , Dwalin son of Fundin.”

“Mahal be my witness,” Dwalin says weakly. “You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

“Not for many years, I hope,” Ori replies, and adds a second finger. Dwalin hisses a little – it’s been a while since he had the opportunity to open himself, and he’s sadly out of practice – but his body remembers, thank Mahal, and he lets his legs fall open a little wider and slumps against the pillows. “Mahal, but you’re beautiful,” Ori says quietly.

Dwalin raises an eyebrow. Ori shrugs, the movement doing fascinating things to the fingers between Dwalin’s legs. “Oh, not in the least feminine. But…you’re the perfect picture of a dwarf warrior, all tattoos and muscles and those lovely nipple rings, and here you are spread on my fingers,” and here he adds a third, and Dwalin hisses in pleasure-pain, “just waiting for me to fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own name. Beautiful.”

“Mahal’s hammer, Ori!” Dwalin says. “Fuck me!”

Ori grins, and slides his fingers out, and replaces them with his cock before Dwalin can even object to the loss. Dwalin’s head goes back and his eyes close and he _moans_ , deep in his throat. Mahal, he had almost forgotten how good this is. And now that he’s remembered, he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to go more than a few hours without doing it again.

Ori moves, sure and graceful, and Dwalin greets each thrust with an encouraging moan. Ori is a talker, he learns with some amusement: the lad lets broken, filthy, gorgeous words fall from his mouth the same ease that he moves his hips, and Dwalin lies back and lets the words wash over him. “Beautiful,” Ori says, and, “Fuck you every blessed day,” and, “Mahal witness, but you’re perfect.”

And then Ori’s oil-slick hand slides between them and curls around Dwalin’s cock, and that’s it, he can’t hang on any longer. He comes with a roar of pleasure, and feels Ori finish in a flurry of hard, perfect thrusts, and then Ori sags down to lie on him like a particularly warm blanket. Dwalin slings his uninjured arm over Ori’s back and tucks the lad’s head under his chin, and just enjoys the feeling of being properly fucked by his own true love.

Later, once they’ve cleaned up and doused the lights, Ori curls up under the covers and tucks his head back under Dwalin’s chin. “I’m going to finish courting you properly,” he says, slightly muffled by Dwalin’s beard.

“I’m going to accept,” Dwalin replies sleepily. “Not letting you go now. Smart an’ pretty an’ sweet _an’_ best fuck in Erebor. Mine. Keeping you.”

He falls asleep to Ori’s slightly giddy laughter, and wakes to Ori’s sun-bright smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely no relation to Coats & Customs.


End file.
